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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28485657">How Can I Love You if I Do Not Know You?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ash_Rabbit/pseuds/Ash_Rabbit'>Ash_Rabbit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon compliant for the most part, Character Study, Gen, Internalized Acephobia, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has Self-Esteem Issues, Lack of Communication, Platonic and Romantic love are equally important, Spoilers, Touch-Averse Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Unreliable Narrator, Updating tags as I go</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:02:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,267</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28485657</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ash_Rabbit/pseuds/Ash_Rabbit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>If fear is rooted in the unknown, than love must be rooted in what is known.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Tim Stoker, Sasha James &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, jonathan "jon" sims | the archivist &amp; martin blackwood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I had a conversation the other day, in which I was told that trying to know everything about someone else isn't the same thing as emotional intimacy, and will only bring me unhappiness because no matter how deeply I look I will never know them in their entirety.<br/>They are of course, correct.<br/>However, I already had this written and after a day of clean up it's 3am.<br/>Enjoy or don't, this is wholly self indulgent.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If one were to ask eight year old Jonathan Sims if he loved his parents, he would have tilted his head, brows knitting and eyes narrowing, before saying “Yes.”</p><p>This would be a lie.</p><p>It had been well over a year since his mother passed through tall hospital doors, she had promised to come back, that it was routine. She had come back, but not in any way that mattered, cold and silent and empty.</p><p>She had doted on him when she was warm, had held him close in her arms and read him Tolkien every night. He knew that she had been a business woman, always busy with streaks of white hair flashing like lightning in thick waves of black. That she had always had enough time to answer every question he’d had and he'd loved that about her. But he couldn’t remember the way she smelt, her favourite tea, colour or flower. If he’d really loved her, he’s sure he would have kept all those important things knotted to his heart on brightly coloured strings so they could never drift away. </p><p>But he hadn’t, and now she’s faded away piece by piece.</p><p>The less said about his father the better, the man had fallen from his memories hardly a year after he had died. Just a name and a few photographs that his grandmother would look at whenever he did something that caused her eyes to droop and lips to thin.</p><p>So he lied, because it was easier than explaining that he didn’t know his parents anymore, just as they didn’t know him. They wouldn’t know that ‘The Hobbit’ wasn’t his favourite book anymore, that he couldn’t bring himself to read through the forest chapters, that they wouldn’t know how spiders terrified him so much so that he couldn’t sleep if he spotted one in his room. They didn’t know about Mr. Spider, and they never would, and he’d never know if they would have believed him when no one else had.</p><hr/><p>If one were to ask the same about his grandmother, he would also say “Yes.” and it would also be a lie.</p><p>It’s not that he didn’t care for her, but she didn’t love him, and it hurt more to hope for something that would never come, than to accept the truth of it.</p><p>He knew that she preferred it when he was quiet and tucked away, not running off or screaming over spiders. That she liked some boring game show where there weren’t any trivia questions, liked to read the paper and do the crossword, and that she’d let him watch as the paper was spread across the small dining table that was perfect for just the two of them. But she cared even if she didn't love him, occasionally putting on ‘Jeopardy!’ and teaching him the different newspaper puzzles, or buying him boxes full of books to sift through.</p><p>The boxes were never the same after Mr. Spider, a lingering terror that had him flipping covers open in the frantic choke of fear that maybe this one would carry the same library sticker. The selection never improved, and sometimes he wondered if she did care.</p><p>But even if she didn't care to know about Mr. Spider, or believe him, she cared enough to kill the spiders that crawl around the house, and swept away the sticky webs that clutter the dark corners.</p><p>She kept him despite everything, so she must have cared if not for his sake than for his fathers.</p><p>She had smelt of curry, and newspaper print. </p><p>On the days he found himself missing her, he did the crossword and ordered in from his favourite Indian place.</p><hr/><p>Jon loved the Admiral, would always love the Admiral, and the Admiral loved him. They didn’t need to speak to know what the other needed, what their wants or likes were.</p><p>He thought of the Admiral every time he saw crinkle mice and salmon tins.</p><p>Jon would think of how the Admiral would butt his head against his hands when he wanted pets, or clambered into his lap when he was about to spiral over his latest assignment. How he killed any spider that dared to trespass and was wonderfully clear about his food preferences.</p><p>They knew all they needed to know about each other and more, he didn’t think there was any love that could beat the warm weight of fur in his lap.</p><hr/><p>Jon thinks that given more time, he could have loved Georgie almost as much as the Admiral. He loved the way she lit up about weird history, how she would go on about various haunting sites across the world and the oddest murder cases. She smelt like earth after the rain, sun dappled petrichor that was cleansing and easy and bright and grounding. And he loved how she sang rough and low and out of tune, but always with passion as they worked through different chord arrangements, and knew that she didn’t care about perfection but of the moment. And he knew that she preferred to take a heaping tablespoon of raspberry jam or honey in hot water to tea or coffee, and claimed that caffeine was counterproductive to hydration. Knew that Georgie was fearless but not reckless, squishing spiders with ease and had laughed at every cheesy horror story that came their way. </p><p>Jon knew that she deserved more than him tensing whenever they touched, unable to relax into her hugs or explain the constant tightening coil of tension within his chest, the feeling of time running short.</p><p>He knew there were parts of her that she wasn’t ready to share, just as he wasn’t. He had wondered every time she'd professed her love if she would whisper that deep seated secret between their exchanges of childhood stories, and hopes, and soft fears that were almost as good as what remained unsaid.</p><p>He knew it was his fault they broke up, she loved him and he couldn’t say the words back in any way that matters. The words sticking and choking and cloying, he couldn’t breathe past it and he couldn’t think about breaching the walls of intimacy without being stricken by the acrid taste of rising bile and the cold drop of his stomach. She didn’t know that he would tell her everything and anything if she asked the right questions, that he would serve her every fragment of himself on a silver platter if he could only find the words.</p><p>He’d wanted to know everything about her, to peel away all the layers and see her and love her down to the very core of her being. She had wanted him to be more emotionally present, soft in ways he doesn’t know how to be. Jon had tried, but wanting to learn the winding passages and fantastic prose of one’s life does not equate to emotional availability.</p><p>In the twilight hours of their relationship she told him that she wanted to be more than a well loved novel.</p><p>Georgie had always read him better than anyone else.</p><hr/><p>Jon finished university with a diploma and fully intended to willfully avoid any and all relationships. He doubted he’d be much good at a relationship anyway. If knowledge was his first and truest love, and if it was the truest combatant of fear, then the Magnus Institute would hopefully fill the cobwebbed hollows of his heart.</p><p>He thought of her often in that first year, sifting through hundreds of ridiculously fake to somewhat plausible tales. </p><p>Jonathan Sims had a cabinet full of tinned salmon and crinkle mice, he avoided going out after it rained and his bookshelf was coated in a thick blanket of dust.</p><hr/><p>When Jon first met Elias Bouchard, he thought the man was almost as he appeared. From the clean lines of his navy suit, to the bland smile and crisp RP accent, his picture came together as wealthy, educated, boring, and perhaps a little condescending.</p><p>But there was always something about the way his eyes gleamed a little too sharply, how his gaze seemed to pierce through you and read you like an open book. Jon recognizes the hunger that lurks behind the placid smile, but he doesn’t care to look closer.</p><p>He wouldn’t dare to jeopardize his chance to research Leitner, to pursue something so mundane. After all a library plate meant that there was a collection, and he had to understand why Leitner had been compelled to collect and not destroy those accursed books.</p><p>The fountain pen was cold and weighty in his hand, and looked as old as the Institute itself. He signed his name away, in sharp curving lines that scraped warmly against the thick paper. </p><p>Director Bouchard's hand was soft and dry, like well kept vellum. He was firm in his grip, but quick to retreat. </p><p>Something he couldn’t put a proper name to eased as he was ushered towards the Research department, as if the silken strands had lost their grip and though he was not free, the air came easier when he stepped past the threshold.</p><hr/><p>Sasha James was the first person to greet him in Research. Sasha James was █████ and █████, and always ready to lend a hand. She loved █████, claiming that it was the superior experience. Sasha smelt like ███ and ██████, as if she were the embodiment of █████, █████████ in all her endeavours.</p><p>She had a table in the library that she had claimed as her own, always laden with stacks of paper and scattered books. She had been working on a paper about ███████ ████████, an oddity she had come across in her sole month in Artefact Storage. </p><p>He was the only one she had allowed at the table for the longest time, he never told her about his encounter, but she was more than happy to point him towards possible materials.</p><p>She must have known, no one would research Leitner’s without knowing what they were capable of, but she’d never asked as they bickered over the various statements that were scattered across their table. </p><p>Sasha was the first one he had asked to join him in the Archives. </p><p>Jon couldn’t remember anything about her, not the real her.</p><hr/><p>Timothy Stoker was the second person he came to call friend, coming on board a little over a year after he was hired. He was researching Smirke’s architecture, links between reports and ley lines and every other insane conspiracy theory or spiritualist ideal that revolved around building locations and designs. </p><p>The man had been Sasha’s friend first of course, both falling into easy bouncing conversation that glittered playfully. Tim was someone he had been happy to keep at a professional distance, too bright and bubbly and sociable for Jon to keep up with, his nature would only put an end to the joviality, piercing the prismatic bubbles of cheer the instant he dared to engage. </p><p>Tim was ridiculous, almost a caricature in how much raw charisma he exuded, a warm charm that could thaw any heart, and the brightest laugh that sang like a burbling brook and could smooth the coarsest of stones. Tim loved kayaking and loud Hawaiian prints and the dumbest puns imaginable. He didn’t know how to dance, and couldn't sing particularly well, but he looked so happy when he was flailing to music and stumbling over words that it couldn’t be anything but dancing. He put the <em class="mw_t_it">amāre </em>back in amateur.</p><p>Tim Stoker had been the second person he invited to the Archives.</p><hr/><p>Elias popped into Research on the regular. The very picture of down to earth upper management if not for his earring, a dangling gold eye that winked coyly in the light. It set something at peace, the quiet eccentricity of the jewelry offsetting Elias' dull bureaucrat form, naturalized him as a respectable man with just enough oddities to not be at odds with the supernatural research institute he headed.</p><p>The man made small talk easily- likely by necessity -able to insinuate himself into any discussion with ease. It was surprising how informed Elias was about their research topics, able to keep pace with Tim’s ongoing Smirke obsession with a practiced ease. There had been a day that Jon had sat back with Sasha and watched as Tim and Elias had debated over Panopticon theory for an afternoon. Tim had pressed forward with the humanitarian angle against Elias' pro-surveillance arguments.</p><p>"Do you think he's serious?" Jon had asked Sasha in a low voice, shuffling through their shared pile of books.</p><p>"Elias?" she asked. "It wouldn't surprise me, you've seen all the cameras in the Institute."</p><p>He had, one to capture every possible angle it seemed.</p><p>"Not to mention, a man who's that posh, has to be a Tory." Sasha had laughed. "Definitely in favour of unethical architecture."</p><p>Elias knew a good deal about Leitner as well, but was never particularly forward about what he knew. He seemed to prefer pointing his researchers in the general direction of information, as if every paper was the culmination of a months long scavenger hunt. It sated a hunger Jon had hardly noticed, an electric thrum of success that burned away the cobwebs. It had been far more soothing than a straight answer could ever hope to achieve. Even when the hints had lead to irrelevant sources, the information picked up along the way was interesting enough to erase the disappointment.</p><p>There was a quiet pride in Elias' pale gaze when Jon accepted the position of Head Archivist.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Season 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I want to preface this by saying that 'No, I don't think Martin Blackwood is a bad person or character.' and that I'm not studying library sciences.<br/>However, I have been to my universities rare book libraries. I distinctly remember being taught the basics of handling old texts, and a list of behaviours that would get you banned from the libraries, maybe even murdered if they could hack it.<br/>I'm just saying, Martin should know better if he worked in the library for close to a decade or so, and not knowing basic library etiquette would be sus.<br/>Actual library science people, let me know if my university was overly intense.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Martin had been easy to overlook at the beginning, not much to know about outside of his general incompetence. Despite his master’s degree and library experience, the man most qualified for the Archives was somehow able to add to the mess of the Archives with slipshod research. He didn’t know how to cite his work, or properly analyze data points or track patterns, and Jon didn’t have time to fix poor work when he had his own qualifications to prove and overcompensate for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon wanted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>peel </span>
  </em>
  <span>Martin, to strip away the soft and bumbling exterior, to expose what has to be sharp and spiny malice, no one could be so incompetent as to loose a dog into the basement levels. It would account for all the other inconsistencies as well, yes, it has to be deliberate sabotage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Martin maintained the gentle and wounded act, crumpling under his dismissals. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet he persisted, a steaming cup of tea always waited for him at the corner of his desk, and always to his taste. It smelled inviting, and warm, and it would be soothing after reading out the latest statement, a ward against the prevalent chill of the Archives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t drink the tea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon knew a ploy when he saw one. A library worker would know the dangers of liquids to old texts, especially one’s like tea. Jon dumped the tea into his spider plant, he hated it if only because of the name, but it had been a gift from Elias, so it stayed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hoped the tea would kill it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then there was Martin’s constant check-ins at lunch and the end of the work day, and whatnot. As if he was incapable of taking care of himself, as if food was some pleasurable experience, and not a distraction from work. Besides, it wouldn’t do to get close to someone you’re trying to bully out of your department after all.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Sasha was competent, better equipped to wrangle the Archives than Jon would ever be. He didn’t know how to talk to her after they transferred down, the easy camaraderie fading into an amiable if cold working relationship. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They still bantered over petty things like pronunciation, but he can’t recall the turning points, or what had frosted over their friendship. Little had changed but something in him screamed that there was something broken, that if he pushed and pulled hard enough he could find the problem and fix it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she didn’t sabotage or undermine him, so he let it rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all, Jon knew he was a coward at heart, and if Sasha didn’t want to make it known, he could at the very least respect that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wished he’d been able to reach out and ask, to find the words to bridge the ever widening chasm.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Jon worked overtime, it’s the only way he could conceive of making any progress. An hour or two, or four, without prying eyes would allow him to gather- create more like -his bearings. Jon slipped through the stacks, tight and towering, it was nostalgic the pressing scent of old ink and paper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From his research and the vague memories of his brief perusal of the Bodleian Archives, he knew enough to compile a couple of plans. The best of which would be contingent on convincing the others of the supernaturals existence, but he couldn’t strip away that ignorance. His hand clenched around the metal shelving, steel cutting dully against the scarce meat of his palm, cold and grounding. No, ignorance had to be better than knowing, give them the option to leave this terrible world of never knowing enough and knowing far too much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s digressed, an archive was a historical record, it could not contain everything, only that which could be considered the truth. The vast bulk of statements were sifted through by Research, a task that was generally assigned to interns or new employees. Most full time researchers focused on publishing articles, specialised projects or practical research within the confines of Artefact Storage. That which was easily discredited up there was binned, and anything within the bounds of reasonable plausibility made its way down to the Archives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basement archives, he can hear several librarians screaming at the irreverence of it all, but he doubts Elias would allocate any resources to relocating an entire library up several flights of stairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even still, the vast majority of statements were false, and it was clear which were true, the ones that had to be taped. The Leitner statement had only confirmed it. As few and far between as they were, it would be insanity to destroy over seventy-five percent of the Archives, regardless of authenticity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was odd really, how little intersectionality there was between departments, as a researcher what true statements there were would have been invaluable as primary sources.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless, he would need to dedicate more time to actually finding patterns between statements, true or otherwise. Separate the organisation systems, group specific instances together. If he was to do this, he would do it as well as he could manage without destroying his skeptic image.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon woke to the familiar pain of numb arms, miserable elbows, and a back that was hotly protesting the abuse of sleeping at a desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was warm, a blanket was draped over him, one that he had left in the sealed room with the cot he swore he wasn’t going to use.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cellophane wrapped sandwich from the Institutes café and a silver key sat atop the papers in his desk tray.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced down at the desk and exhaled in relief, tension easing, no puddles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon locked the Institute behind him and bit into the sandwich, ham and swiss, it was nice.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Tim was a mediocre baker, and absolutely abysmal at frosting, baking Jon the ugliest cake he’s ever seen. The white frosting was patchy in its coverage, and the thin green lettering looked akin to a nursery student’s in the jagged strokes and awkward spacing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it was the best cake he’d ever had, bursting with warm care and sweet affection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim wanted to be known, an open book for any to behold, his prose bold and vibrant. Like a firework, warm and noisy and bursting as he painted the air around him in an array of brilliant colours. Tim had smelt like sugar and sweat and the first hints of summer as Jon had tried and failed to struggle out of the sticky press of the group hug he’d been dragged into. </span>
</p><p><span>Tim preferred getting small knick-knacks to a singular expensive gift, and so, Jon found himself accumulating a collection of things that reminded him of Tim</span> every year: a snow globe of some Smirke building, a kayak keychain, or a Hawaiian print tie that was positively hideous to name a few. </p><p>
  <span>It was easy to be around Tim, to not worry about looking too closely when he was all too happy to show himself.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Martin had been away for some time, off sick, and Jon was relieved. There would be no potential sabotages or abysmal research he would have to revise and resolve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a relief until Martin came barreling in with news of worms and Prentiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin had to stay in the Archives, he couldn’t send the man back to that. And though Jon didn’t think Martin would shuffle things around while they were gone, he stayed later than he normally would. At the very least he could investigate deeper into Prentiss and if nothing else, he could keep an eye on Martin and decipher his intentions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was nothing, nothing but sappy poetry that was doused in yearning, and an unfortunate predilection to sleep without trousers on. The freckles that dust his soft face also slink lower, smattered in scarce asterisms across bared arms and below the knees. Nothing incriminating, but it lacked the density indicative of large stretches of regular exposure. Martin must not have spent much time outdoors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there was nothing to be done, nothing relevant at least. Jon wasn’t keen on the idea of Martin bumbling around his flat and poking through the scarce memories he had, and he couldn’t foist the man on Tim or Sasha either. The Archives were the safest location anyway, the protection of files translated well to the protection of humans. However… he frowned as a silver worm crept across the floor, and crushed it with his toe, dragging the body across the floor in a smear of chartreuse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would need to talk to Elias about that.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Sasha had met a man who looked ordinary until one looked at his reflection, met a man whose shadow stretched too long and had a voice that resonated in a multitude of tones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sasha had met a man who was not a man in a derelict graveyard, a not-man who offered them a solution.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sasha James who had not believed herself to be brave, had walked into danger for them of her own volition and came back with an answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon resolved to pull Sasha aside when all of this was over, to talk through what happened and make any apologies he needed to. He missed his friend, and if she could confront monsters, then he could talk to her without any airs, he could talk to her honestly.</span>
</p><hr/><p><span>Persuasion had never been his forte so much as persistence and well researched arguments. </span>Which is to say that Jon had badgered Elias into instituting CO2 as their primary fire suppression system.</p><p>
  <span> It was a long overdue change regardless of supernatural worms. He had focused on that point in particular. An Archive should not be exposed to pests, moisture or fire after all. Sprinklers would cause as much damage as they would prevent, especially to a room that was dedicated to old papers. And it’s not as if they had to worry about ignition sources outside of electrical, who would want to burn down the Archives?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias was unreadable, as per usual. Expression fixed in that polite half smile that teetered constantly between genuine and mocking throughout his spiel. He didn’t seem to blink and Jon had done his best to maintain eye-contact, though by the end of it his throat was as dry as eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Archives received the new fire suppression system, and Elias’ smile had settled into something that Jon would almost call fond by the end of his winding speech.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Prentiss tried to kill them, and Gertrude had been rotting beneath their feet for months. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three bullets to the chest, it almost seemed a mercy compared to the constant throb of pain that came from being eaten alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon wanted to pick and scratch at the gouges, to scrape away the phantom sensation of burrowing maggots and invisible pestilence. He settled instead for worrying his hand between his teeth, grinding away until the pain distracted from the itch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His free hand wrapped white knuckled against an ordinary ballpoint, tip near shearing through the paper as he began his investigation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a murderer afoot, and everyone was suspect.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>https://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/documents/archives/archive-principles-and-practice-an-introduction-to-archives-for-non-archivists.pdf<br/>^^^<br/>A 24 page document about the basics of Archiving. It was released in 2016, so Jon should have had access to it. It doesn't address food and beverage, but the general rule of thumb is don't, in places with a plethora of old books.<br/>Also just, Jon should not have pens, but I don't think he would care for pencils.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Season 2, or ♫This is how we fall apart♫</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first month back they had a movie night, a day where the four of them could come together in a non-professional setting. Jon had pulled S̴̝̋̑a̸̧̠̟̤͋̒̊̕s̵̨̤̪̲̤̽̍͂͆h̷̢̛̫̟͠ą̸̡͖͈̺̿ aside, and the words had stuck as he choked them out in tight bursts of air, as he asked her if she resented him for being Elias’ first choice. She had smiled coyly, red painted lips twisting brilliantly as her laughter popped in time to the corn kernels. </p><p>“I’m happy to just be S̸̬̪͓̗͓̜͍̥̏̒̿̉ȁ̵̹̠̤̆̀̎̑͗̆͘ͅs̸͈̤̥̼͙͖̙̦̈́͌̆͛̂̽̚͝͠h̵̛̳̗̗͗̍̄̎̾̓̂̐a̴̖̪̯͗͑̀͋́̈́͝ͅ ̶̧̢͉͔̫̯̃̔͘͘͘J̷̜̩̣͂͒̋ã̸͔̯̝̣̋̎̂̍̒͜m̷̠̱͑́̒̐̎͆ë̷̢͍̙͎̯͍́͐̿̅͛̀ṣ̴̳̥͕͇̀̋̍͛͆͗̚, Archival Assistant.” she shook her head, before dashing a handful of salt into the pot and a hefty swirl of sriracha. “And being the Archivist isn’t as appealing as it once was.” she tapped her fingers against the unblemished porcelain of her cheek.</p><p>He mimicked her, fingers falling against the rough gauze, and turned away with a tight nod. It was the answer he’d hoped for, but it was hollow in the aftermath of everything.</p><p>S̶̬̼͇̻̰͚̈́͐̄a̷̻̖̗̾̆̽͆̌̂̌͠s̸̻͕͋͒̐͛͘h̵͔̝͙̣͓͐̓a̶̭̰̫̙̿͑ loved stop motion films, and as she was hosting, they watched her favourite, ‘Coraline’. She had smiled widely the whole way through, even as he beat a hasty retreat to join Tim (who had long since absconded) in the kitchen as the spidery nature of the Beldam made itself known. His gaze settled away from the screen and onto Martin and S̶̡͖̩͆̆̆̂̐ä̴̢́̑̋̃s̸͈̣͗̅͋͗̾h̶̼̲̹̝̩͙̯̔̍â̵̗͔̚͜.</p><hr/><p>The more Jon came to know Timothy Stoker, the more Tim came to hate Jon. Pushed him away, blocked him out, and Jon didn’t blame him. He’d crossed too many boundaries, forgotten how to share parts of himself, the fears, the hopes, the thoughts. But he needed to know, to be sure, because someone was lying to him. Or everyone was. </p><p>Everyone had secrets, some deadlier than others, and he had to be sure Tim hadn’t been pulling his strings from the very beginning</p><p>He can’t stand the idea that the Tim Stoker he knew was a lie. </p><p>There had to be irrefutable proof of his innocence, and Jon would find it no matter the cost.</p><hr/><p>Elias approached him, it was hardly anything new, statement givers would come in expecting to be coddled or reassured, which was utterly beyond him. </p><p>But no, this complaint was internal. He'd been sloppy in his investigations. It was from Martin and Tim.</p><p>He sliced ragged crescent into his hands, deep and weeping, it's all he can do to not crawl into his office and never come out. </p><p>Elias had plied him with soft reprimands and reassurances. It sat ill at ease, and though there was an alien warmth in his eyes, Jon couldn’t trust him.</p><p>It was time to begin digging into Elias’ past. </p><p>Elias had been something of a reprobate, his university indulgences into marijauna well documented by Oxford's old gossip papers.</p><p>His first year at the Institute was as a filing clerk before transferring out to Artefact Storage, though there was no one left from before he became the Director. Elias’ immediate family had passed a couple of years after his ascension to Head, though the causes appeared to be ordinary accidents and health problems.</p><p>If anything the most suspicious thing here was how long Elias had lasted in Artefact Storage in conjunction with how easily he had dismissed Prentiss as a threat.</p><p>Jon circled Elias’ name twice, he had a new number one suspect.</p><hr/><p>In retrospect Jon was glad for Prentiss, had Martin confessed any other time about his falsified CV he might have tried to kill the man. The old flames of indignation paired with a raging case of impostor syndrome would have had him shouting himself hoarse with nothing but venomous malice coating his tongue.</p><p>However, as nice as Martin and his tea were, they had no business in an Archive that had spent decades in disarray. Tea that shouldn’t have been allowed in the Archive’s anyway, but it had kept Martin out of the way, and over time it had become something of a comfort, a blanket against the cold draft. His spider plant had enjoyed it well enough as well, leaves still green and strong despite the lack of sunlight, and the constant tea baths. </p><p>Martin was soft and warm and kind, likes Keats and tea and fuzzy jumpers and didn’t belong in the cold prison of the Archives.</p><hr/><p>They had staged an intervention. It was a garish mockery of sense and rationale.</p><p>Elias presided over the kangaroo court with a placid smile and gimlet eyes. </p><p>Jon dug his fingers into the table, flesh greeting old oak as pads bitten to the quick do their best to ground themselves. Fury prickles hot behind his eyes, and despair coats his throat in sticky mucus, nothing he says would get through to them.</p><p>Tim stood there, his words short and biting in the dull crackle of anger that pulsed between his breaths. </p><p>If he was as innocent as he claims, it's well warranted.</p><p>Š̶̨̯͇̯̔̆̈́à̵̪̖́̅̕͝s̵̡͕͙͕̲̭̓͊̋̔h̴̢̥̣͋̏͆̃͜a̴͕͉͐̽͆̿͛͘ͅ watched with eyes as bright as polished buttons, and when she spoke it was immaterial, fluff between the ears. He shouldn't be surprised, he was surrounded by liars.</p><p>Speaking of-</p><p>Martin had gone along with this farce, even with his precious secret held between his hands, Martin had gone along with this. The secret he held was worthless, and Martin was not to be trusted with his suspicions, regardless of what he says, he thinks that Jon isn’t right.</p><p>Whatever Martin had intended with that statement, and whatever threats were made to his ah- employment status, well it wouldn’t matter if he was dead, now would it.</p><p>He would continue on this path, there was nothing else for him at this point.</p><hr/><p>Jon found the tapes. Š̶͙̭̝̹̠̰̿̑̏̐̈́ã̵̡̘̣͚̦͈͉̺͓́̄͌͂s̵͉̺̐̎̔͆̔̎̊͝h̵̢̛͕̰̹͓̫̪̞̽͗̔͛͆̓ą̸͚̹̘̖̗̋͋̓̐͝ wasn’t S̷̭̭͎̩͛ͅa̶̡̻̥̻̭̺͎̣̫̜͈̺͌͒̈́̄̅ş̵̖̟̪̫͈͇̞̤̲͍͐̈́̐̿̏̄̀͊͌̅͑̌̎̚̕͝͠ĥ̴̛̳͐͌͒ą̸͚̳̱̝̖͔͑͛̀͑̎̊̒̈́͆.</p><p>He was too late, and he couldn’t turn to anyone. Tim wouldn’t believe him, that bridge long burned even before the mock intervention. Besides, Tim was always closer to S̵͓̺͔͂̿̌͐̊̇̈̏̈̒̉͠ẳ̸̡͎̜͉̦ş̸̭̱̲̞̺̙̯̃̑͛̎̾͝ḩ̸̛̪̠̰̮̜̘͈̮͈͓̗̤͗̓̓̓͆͊̈́̉̊̎͆̕͝͝ạ̵̤̺̬̏̌ and she wasn’t the one who had stalked him and insinuated he had committed murder. </p><p>No, Tim would sooner believe this to be his newest bout of paranoia, and rightly so.</p><p>Martin was just as likely to lie to his face after assuaging his worries and tell everyone exactly how delusional he found Jon, again. </p><p>He wouldn’t make the same mistake. He couldn’t afford to with such a slim margin for error.</p><p>Elias’ delayed reaction to Prentiss and Jon’s perceived instability would only make this the final nail in the coffin. He couldn’t stand the thought of having to face that look of disappointment paired with another public dressing down.</p><p>He would have to take measures into his own hands.</p><hr/><p>Not-Sasha had smelt of cloves, carried a perfectly straight grin that dimpled her cheeks, and black doll-like eyes that stretched inhumanly wide and unblinking as she- it pursued him through the tunnels. </p><p>Not-Sasha had preferred spicy foods, ordering the most tongue searing items off the takeaway menus, had loved embroidery and doll crafting. The thought of the vibrant skeins of thick embroidery thread he had sitting in his closet for her-it, knotted viciously in his stomach.</p><p>He knew so many little things about Not-Sasha, and yet the real Sasha James was a stranger to him.</p><hr/><p>Jon knocked on Georgie's door, mindful of the flakes of crusted blood that caked the bottom of his ruined oxfords, of the rust that soaked his cuffs and the dirt that dusted his heavily creased slacks and stained his shirt.</p><p>The door opened and Georgie stood there haloed by the soft lamp light. </p><p>His hand dropped and she pulled him close.</p><p>He sank against her, her plush curves and gentle give and soft cotton that set his senses awash in cleansing spring rains.</p><p>It felt like coming home.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>and then Georgie said "What the fuck Jon?" and forced him to take a hot shower.<br/>Season 2 hits real different on playback.<br/>Something, something, everyone in the Og!Archives crew presents a false persona.<br/>Feeling no thoughts head empty, so gratuitous edits in post will occur by the next chapter ¯\_(ツ)_/¯</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's that sweet sweet season 3 spiral. CW's for Jon's absolute garbage levels of self care and self confidence.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span> Georgie was there when Jon needed her, no questions asked, and it was good and easy and the Admiral curled against him as if he'd never left. It was nice, contact without expectations, without a call for greater intimacy or looming threat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smelt the same, of subtle spring notes, of the sun gently kissing thawed earth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They slipped into a routine, orbits only aligning every so often despite the shared space and the Admiral a carefree shuttle flopping into whoever’s lap he pleased with the garbled chirps of an overgrown kitten.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s easier than when they’d been together.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>There were statements on the doorstep, a constant stream that did little to help clarify anything. Just a series of jigsaw pieces that were incompatible with each other, or belonged to a puzzle far more complex than expected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the statements soothed an ache in him, soothed the growing restlessness that plagued his waking moments, and as the gears began turning, the wool between his ears cheerfully spun into fine strands of coherent thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was horrifying and satisfying in equal measure, the way the maddening itch was abated, the void filling as he was flooded with the need to know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s a familiar pattern to fall back into, the familiarity of pseudo-productivity anchored him to something outside of the soft motor purrs and listless days of hiding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something shifted in the air, the walls closing in as they’re papered high with terror filled hymns and desperate prayers to be understood. His scars ache, great pits that litter his every limb, some nights, the ones without the statements spinning through his mind and off his tongue, some nights he can feel the phantom writhing, the grinding pain of needle filled maws tearing at his nerves and flesh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then questions were asked as the statements continued to pile ever higher and fear took it’s dues and then some, and there’s too much at risk, too much to say, and the words knotted again, and again, and then Georgie </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Has always known in a way, and then they knew each other's worst moments, but it's not good or sweet or fulfilling. (But it was).</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The less said about Daisy, the better.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Martin yelled at him to do something. As if he had the power to stop Daisy or Elias when his throat wasn’t crusted in his own blood and his left hand hadn’t been ruined twice over in the same day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What did Martin think he could do? Should he be flattered? It’s a terrible thing to pour one’s faith into a cracked jug, but he wanted to fulfill that request.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t need to, Elias handled himself just fine with flinty eyes and silvered tongue.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Of course it was Elias who sent the statements. Elias who’d been playing them all since the beginning, and seemed amused by Jon’s attempts at compulsion. And yet, he handed them invaluable morsels of information and awful (glorious) confirmations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t changed outside of how candid he’d become. Still preferring to be referred to without formalities despite the poisoned honey that dripped thick and heavy from his tongue with every double-edged word. Still the man in the tower, who watched from his throne, though now he knew it to be unfortunately literal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias had answers that he refused to give, sending Jon back to a pathway of tangled threads, and burgeoning dread with words of praise that should send him into righteous indignation, and not the alien fluster of warmth that provided a brief reprieve from the constant cold in his bones.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Tim Stoker had a younger brother. One who would have been the same age as Jon had he lived. Tim Stoker hated the Circus with a burning passion, wanted to torch the Royal Opera House and the Archives just as much. Tim Stoker’s laugh was more black and bitter than espresso, and he wore scuffed leather jackets and dark shirts with even darker stains. Tim Stoker smoked a pack a day, and smelt like the end of a bonfire, all smoldering abandonment and hunger and burnt grease drippings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were no traces of the Tim that came before.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Melanie was angry all the time, but not angrier than Tim. She was rage without a direction, and so it flowed over, splashing every which way until it found a worthy target. Jon wasn’t surprised when he became that target, Martin was soft and sweet and harmless, Tim was not so much a powder keg as he was a dagger piercing through its silk wrapping, and though it was honed for a singular target, he struck out with it against those who deserved it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So of course Jon was her target, he had disparaged her from the get go, when false ignorance was all he could cling to, and then he became her direct superior in the slow death of the Archives. How could he blame her when every choice he’s made has led to festering wounds and phantom aches.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The Circus came for him, and he was left with nothing but his thoughts for a month. Nothing but his ruminations to block out the constant barrage of circus music. So he sat and reflected, first on the statements, then on his situation and finally, when he ran out of topics to squeeze dry, he thought of his assistants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim, and Sasha, and Martin in particular, despite the time and terrors shared, he couldn’t even say he knew them. The foundations of his knowledge was built upon a sinkhole, and he was suffocating beneath his assumptions. Oh god, Sasha, what was there to even say, that she was a prescriptivist, a prankster, tech savvy and in all likelihood the cleverest of them all? His stomach heaved but it was empty, had been empty for a long time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira doesn’t care for him, doesn’t care for any of them really. But she wasn’t actively hostile, almost a friend before all of this. She was colder, the walls thicker then when he was under suspicion for murder. She was a fortress that could not be breached, or perhaps it was possible, but Daisy’s sharp glares and sharper smiles were more than enough of a deterrent. His head lolled back as much as it could, three weeks to starve, but three days to dehydrate, being bled out almost sounded a mercy. At least Daisy would have made it quick and clean, not this stretch of liminality, where time and space held no meaning. He’d long since lost track of how many times the calliope had played </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Faster Faster’, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the phantom tune so blindingly loud as it pulsed behind his eyes in an off-kilter arrhythmic loop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which left- Melanie, the only one to notice Sasha’s disappearance. Georgie had spoken fondly of Melanie, and Jon wished he could have met the dry biting humour of that Melanie. A Melanie who didn’t smell heavily of iron and old takeaway, whose hands seemed to only know violence and its pursuit. Melanie who was willing to gamble with the lives of close to a hundred people as she moved to kill Elias.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Elias who had all the answers, Elias who despite his murderous tendencies and preferences to obfuscate the truth, was somehow the only person Jon could trust to act in a predictable manner, to point them in the right direction. Elias who smelt like old festering knowledge, of thick parchment and bitter ink, of the sharp bite of the coming winter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias who had left Jon to rot with the Circus for a month. Elias who had framed Jon for the murders he’d committed. And yet, and yet, and yet, he stepped between them unthinkingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scalpel sunk in, a sharp prick, hardly anything considering the year he’d had, but iron permeated his every sense as fear struck true. They couldn’t afford to lose Elias.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon- </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>needed those answers, those ghostly trails that slipped through his fingers like mist, leaving nothing but empty air and cold disenchantment in their wake.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Tremors still wracked his body, his every wheezing gasp acting as frost in his lungs and coated his tongue in an iron tang. Jon pawed clumsily at the sweat clumped hair hanging in his eyes, limbs leaden and warped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should have called for help, the erratic pulse of his heart beat in time to the searing pain behind his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But here was no one he could turn to, not really. Not that he had a right to burden them with his rampant neuroticism or woes, he’d already inflicted quite enough harm on them as it is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon flipped blindly through the tapes that were recorded in his absence, perhaps he could prete- good lord he’s pathetic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shoved a tape into the cassette at random and hit play.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been difficult. Gerry’s page hadn’t taken the flame easily, fizzling out in a slow and nauseatingly sweet smoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Skin, leather, was a natural flame retardant after all, and the Eye had made sure to take it’s due with every attempt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes fluttered shut as he let the indiscernible voices wash over him, head pillowed on a messy stack of freshly recorded statements.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would have liked to have met Gerry before all of this, to learn about the man behind the statements. He’d never get to know if Gerry was every textbook stereotype, if he smelt of the same black ink his hair looked to be dyed in, or if he carried the floral notes of a funeral bouquet left to the mercies of a December frost. Or perhaps Gerry would be all warm notes, of burnt sage and the heady smoke of a well destroyed Leitner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drew his fingers through the still smouldering pile of ash, cinders eating at an already fire ruined canvas. There was so much he’d never get to know, but at the very least Gerard Keay could rest now.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Jon knew the least about Basira, and yet somehow she was easier to read than Martin or Melanie. She was calculated and distant and efficient. Driven from mystery to mystery, should he fall she would probably be next in line for Archivist. She didn’t seem to fall victim to her own fears, always pressing forward and always rational.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then, she was probably too alike to Gertrude for Elias to promote her, to be trusted to act accordingly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira rarely approached him, and when she did it was about the Unknowing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the ride up her fingers tapped rhythmically against the wheel, like the ticking of a clock.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Jon missed the lie, the easygoing joker who never existed but had loved so easily and had been easy to love. But Tim had never loved them if all he’d willing given them were lies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or maybe Jon had never given Tim the care he was due, never looked close enough, never tracked boundaries or fears or all the little things that would have let him know Tim. Jon had never loved the real Tim, but he thinks he would have liked to have tried again, to have done better, been more attentive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tim what’s in your hand?” Jon asked, demanded, compelled, willed his godforsaken questions to help for on-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim blinked, and when he finally pressed the plunger it almost felt like absolution.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>On the grounds that I'll never be satisfied with this, and that I can't be bothered to adjust chapter 6 to be canon compliant to 190 and beyond. So I'll just be posting these whenever I hit a point of having little else to say.<br/>Also the skin page should not have burned that easy, leather/vellum/Gerry's skin, is not the same as paper.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If any of you would like to chat, find me at my Tumblr <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ash-rabbit">Ash-Rabbit</a><br/></p></blockquote></div></div>
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